


tilt-shift tendency

by nayeon



Category: TWICE (Band)
Genre: F/F, Immortals, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, friends to lovers to enemies to -, plus mortals with very long lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-07-30 10:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20095942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayeon/pseuds/nayeon
Summary: If it's give and take, they both win. She prays this is what it's going to be. She gets in the car. It’s not a Bentley, not some warm, restless night in 1973. But the wheels go pretty fast, and this morning sun is never anything less than rabid, California heat a tattooed glare.





	1. E12

**Author's Note:**

> Written for GG Jukebox Round 1, inspired by I Didn't Just Come to Dance by Carly Rae Jepsen.
> 
> also, these chapters are going to be quite short so... if you don't like pressing 'next chapter' very often, i'd recommend viewing the entire work! :)

Something like vertigo - but not exactly - but like it, still. Seven remembers coming here, before. Remembers the church. Remembers its spires rising to the stars, tongues of steel aching for a taste of flight. The stone walls dry and hot, even in the nights when there would be breezes coming in from the sea. Remembers not being Seven.

But she's Seven now, and she's just made it past the bouncer. Gone is the masonry, the stained glass. Here and now, the only worship is done in skin brushing over skin, if it's worship. Many times it isn't. Many times it's just barter. Many times it's just taking. Here, confessions rendered are less than heartfelt, barely heard. Here, and now.

Seven sidles up to the bar, smile on, the look in her eyes winningly bright. Here, and now, and here. Marble under her palms, stilettos caught against the rungs of her barstool. The bartender starts heading over to her. Seven knows, here, and now, and here, if she turns her head, towards the gaze she knows is on her, she will see _ \--_. Seven knows. Orders a Redheaded Slut.

Seven knows. It's why she isn't making a move. Tonight, it isn't about --.

Seven reminds herself about being inside the nave of what this all was, centuries ago. The way it felt the nearer she came to the altar. The way it was solemn, but light, but heavy, but joyful. The way she would come to it just so she could feel, maybe, that she was closer to --.


	2. A0

The myths say one thing. The storytellers do their job, and embellish, and wax on, until they say quite another. But as in most cases, the reality is at once more blistering and more quiet than anything else.

The sky was split in half: along the center was a ridge, a rent, a spine that curled both ways in bitterness and splendor, a cut to distinguish between the day and night. So it was an eclipse, yet no sun, no moon (no human eclipse). So Ameratsu stood, hair flying in the wind, eyes set to steel despite their tones of embered warmth.

Opposite, in all his height and pride and flesh, Susanoo. He had his sword at his side.

She reached for it. It flew to her.

Holy gaze against holy gaze.


	3. E18

She doesn’t remember when or how Hirai got to be part of her name. This is a little surprising, because there isn’t much Seven doesn’t remember. But then, there’s always a catch that can afford to be overlooked, so she stays still under the tree.

Stakeouts aren’t always fruitful for her, not nearly ever the smart choice. There’s shadows involved more often than not - night, something to hide behind. The water plays a tune. Her thoughts, as always, play to another.

But if she’s quieter than dares to be, she feels the spot of light again. She fishes around for something.  _ Isn’t it fucking delightful? _

“I say,” Five drawls. She’s quieter than Seven’s ever dared to be, but then, Five never had to try. “Isn’t it fucking delightful?”

Seven takes a breath. Five draws closer. This is usually how it is.

“No,” Seven says, evenly. Stakeouts aren’t always fruitful, and Five playing games has never, in all of recorded history, helped a single soul. It hasn’t gone very well in unrecorded history either, not that Seven’s bitter, or counting, or anything of the sort.

“Why bitch about it?” Five’s smiling, at her shoulder now, and this is also familiar, but not recently so.  _ If  _ she were a stickler for habit,  _ if  _ the past few decades are anything to go by, Seven should be gone by now. Still - there’s the light, and Seven’s tired. Seven’s human. They forget that from time to time, but she’s never stopped being human.

A stone, dislodged and skidding across the placid river. Enough to round her senses up to the present. Seven digs her heel into the crackling leaves for that much more momentum.

It’s a beautiful night. Maybe this November isn’t so bad. Maybe Five standing very still, smile dropping off slightly, isn’t how Seven wanted to end it this time. Maybe the water will keep them both company.

Maybe, Seven thinks, chasing after another shadow that means nothing - not in the long reach, not in the tapestry, or in the lines of her palm - maybe neither of them will ever feel good about this.


	4. B1

Once upon a time, a wrathful knight was born. Out of love for swords, the sun, and the victory that lies in storm. Blood on her face, eyes wide open, at once so far from and close to the Five she was destined to be.


	5. B2

In a different fractal of time, the sun rises and the dawn prepares to dance. In the mirror facing the cave, the warmth multiplies to rise like a riptide through the fields with laughter. In a different fractal of time, a girl takes her first breath. She cries, then smiles, then cries. The basket nestling her sways in the breeze.

She will remember her first memory as the clouds. She won’t be wrong.


	6. E28

Here, they have names. It’s Los Angeles, so they aren’t _ real_.

“Hello, Hinata,” Five laughs, taking her time with the pronunciation.

“Kotomi,” Seven says, to get it out of the way.

If it's give and take, they both win. She prays this is what it's going to be. She gets in the car. It’s not a Bentley, not some warm, restless night in 1973. But the wheels go pretty fast, and this morning sun is never anything less than rabid, California heat a tattooed glare.

“Heard you were sniffing for gold.”

Five’s hair is blonde, again. But there are skyscrapers now where there weren’t before, so it helps to anchor Seven. Anchoring is something she has had to get good at. She wonders, briefly, if it’s something Five has ever needed to do. She never did get to ask all the questions she wanted to. That’s one of the problems with living long. Or maybe just with living; nothing’s ever enough.

“Yes,” Seven replies, because it’s true.


	7. B5

Sleepless nights lend little more than irritation to her training sessions. _Odori_ lessons verge on becoming lifeless, but she fights tooth and nail against that. Then there’s _tantojutsu_, which fares the worst - coordinating all her limbs with daggers, not the best running on insomnia - and archery, which ranks somewhere in the middle. The space, the time she could have to herself before the decision and the will.

Maybe the one thing that brings her any lightness or joy is the princess-knight-to-be.

She has sat for hours just watching her in training, seen the long, bronze blade of her _ tsurugi _ swipe through the air and catch the sun on its tip. She knows for a fact that the princess knight hasn’t been sleeping either - they’ve stumbled across each other in late night wandering walks across the glen at camp. And yet, _ her _ coordination, the way _ her _limbs dance with the elements during testing and move clean as can be… 

“Fall,” the instructor calls out, disappointment heavy in his tones. “Again, no concentration. One more fall and I’ll have you flayed.”

“A break?” A new voice enters.

She spins around.

The princess knight has her head cocked to the side. She is expressionless, but her eyes are twinkling. The instructor doesn’t stand a chance against her in rank, and they all know this.

“If that is what you request,” he says, stilted.

They’re sitting at the bank of the spring, feet bare in the cold water. She’s shivering, but _ she _isn’t.

“I’m Sana,” the princess knight declares. Her hands and calves muddy, thighs shining with water and sweat, bangs stuck to her forehead every which way. “Just Sana,” she adds. “I don’t have any other name.” Then she turns to her. “What about you?”

“Oh.” A pause. “I’m Momo. I don’t have another name, either.”

Sana beams, and it’s slow over her face. It’s surprising. Momo isn’t used to something so bright and full. At least, not so close to camp. (No, she isn’t used to something like this at all.)

Momo smiles back, tentative.

“You are awake all of the day,” Sana says, immediately. "And most of the night."

“Yes,” Momo replies.

“Do you…”

This is the only time Momo will ever see Sana hesitate, really hesitate. Sana will be at a loss for words sometimes, she will take a step back and give Momo her space sometimes, but she will never hesitate like she does now.

“Do you want to watch the moon with me, if we’re awake together?”

“I have seen you,” Momo blurts, not a real answer, but in a way, a _ yes_. In a way, an _ is this what you really mean? _

“And I you,” Sana says, simply.

Later, she’ll say it was simple because it _ was _just simple. Because the difficult part was deciding to take that chance. And that was it. 

“Is it an honor for me?” Momo hazards. “Princess knight?”

Sana beams again. Good. It’s what Momo wanted.

Then Sana raises her cold, muddy hands and places them on Momo’s warm shoulders, damp with sweat.

In that split second: two girls at fourteen, the August haze, Sana’s hair starting to curl in its wetness. The water a sparkling world around their ankles.

It’s better than anything.


	8. E46

It’s not like it’s easy.

There’s mist from the dance floor. The lights flicker. The bass keeps thrumming, something so magnetic it makes her blood rise to the rhythm with it. The girl on the pole is so sinuous; turn and turn about, gliding like she was meant for this.

Sitting some feet away, marble cold and smooth, under her fingertips, it almost makes Seven dizzy to look at her.

It’s not like she never liked the quickest way out.

Nayeon slides her a second drink, this one something dirty. There’s some coffee in there, which Seven would appreciate at any time other than this. Which Seven knows she should appreciate right now. It’s just that, they keep forgetting. They all keep forgetting.

She keeps forgetting. But Seven isn’t here for her, and it somehow takes so  _ much  _ to remind herself of this.

Marble, cold and smooth. Glass in her hands, beading. Down her throat, wet and dirty, another boost of caffeine so dulled out it's barely caffeine. Nayeon’s got another shot before Seven can blink.

There, far corner on the left.

Seven heaves herself up, makes her way to the floor. Looks as casually as she can, even if she  _ is  _ pointedly not looking at a certain place. Towards a certain face.

There’s movement, and she steels herself to listen close. Beyond the music, past the laughter and stilted, shouted conversation, she listens close.

The funny thing is, there’s almost no real point in not looking at that face, because she sees it anyway. Seven closes her eyes, and she sees it. Seven looks into anyone’s face and it can melt into  _ hers  _ without any warning. Seven looks up at the sun to blind herself out for a while, some days, and her fingers still know how to see it - big eyes, the lashes curled and soft, the sweep of the jaw something quick and perfect and soft. The span of the forehead, the way those baby hair push forward no matter how many threading sessions have taken place over the years.

She listens close. Everything blurs out into the background, and she can hear the rustle of an envelope, a quiet laugh as if it isn’t happening. She starts making her way, sideways, through the crowd. It’s better through the crowd. Seven moves fast, and with all those bodies there’s that much chance they won’t see her coming.

The funny thing is, the alcohol’s kicking in (barely) and Seven already has an ache in her chest that wants to be filled, that wants to say it  _ misses  _ \- that Seven  _ misses  _ \- that --.

She hasn’t made it to the other corner, and there’s someone out to get her, so she’s there on instinct, hand at her hip, gripping, and then right up again against the weapon. Seven looks.

The funny thing is, once the  _ missing  _ starts, the  _ anger  _ sure is quick to follow. And in between, the memories. The stuff of all their years making sure  _ anger  _ isn’t alone,  _ missing  _ isn’t alone, making sure she feels -

Five’s mouth does that thing where it resembles a smile but it really isn’t. Seven squints. It really isn’t, and it isn’t inviting, but she wants to kiss it. She wants to kiss it off Five’s mouth because she’s known it for so long, so well, she’s -

Flick of the wrist. Five’s knife slices through the gun and grazes Seven’s skin. It’s red-hot. Seven steps back, and Five follows. This is how it’s always been. Space, crowding. Space, too close. Space that is not enough, that never will be, space that shouldn’t be there, but that shouldn’t be there in a way that  _ Seven  _ wants, that shouldn’t  _ exist _ , in the first place, that should be  _ shot _ .

Sooner than she expects, Seven hits the bar again. Marble. So cold, so comforting. She tilts herself back on her elbows.

“You could do it,” Seven says, as if they’ve been having this conversation for so long.

And haven’t they.

It’s not like it’s easy.

Nayeon slides two glasses forward.

Five’s mouth straightens, steps aside.

It’s unbearable, the weight. Blackhole of a body, inviting, the gravity around her twisting until Seven just wants to blink and let everything be done with. Blink and go back to another time.

Five’s mouth opens as she brings the wine to her lips. Seven tilts her head, watches unabashedly, detachedly, as it dribbles to the sides a little bit. The glass crashes down on the marble, and Seven thinks about the time she had sat in a pew. She can overlap the images from then and now. Five’s hand, hesitating in the air as it is right now, would have been right on Seven’s head from then. And back then, they could’ve tried harder and made it work. Maybe.

Seven turns and closes her eyes, as usual. Takes another drink.

The music is consistent.


	9. B34

For all their training, the only flowers Momo can tell apart are the ones that help heal when they’re ground into a salve, and the ones that look beautiful when Sana gets bored and braids them into her hair. And Sana. She can tell apart Sana from anyone else.

They’re lying down in one of the fields, hiding well away from the strategy instructor. “How many rations would you throw into the river if your boat is sinking?” Sana makes up a question on the fly, putting on the high, keening tone he has when he’s asking them to revise the lessons he dictates to them. It isn’t even that funny, but they’re laughing so hard and so quietly. It hurts, and feels so pure. 

There are tears in Sana’s eyes, and a smudge of crushed grass against her cheek. She still looks wild, something hard to her in her soft, light face. Mouth wide open, in that wheezing laugh, teeth shining, and just as much looking like she could win against the whole world with her bare hands if she wanted to.

Sana’s laughter slows, tapers off like a question, so Momo has to look somewhere else.

Sana laughs again, this time aloud. It sounds warm, it sounds like it’s just for Momo. Momo’s ears burn.


End file.
